PRE
by fubukitasuku999
Summary: A young girl that refuses to feel emotions. A young boy who wants to live. Another young boy who wants everyone to smile. (Just some stuff that I had to write sorry my summary sucks I'm so sorry)
1. Chapter 1

The young girl's breathing got more and more ragged. Her first kill, her first job-was done. She dropped her Trigger, a gigantic scythe too many sizes larger than her, and dropped to her knees. '...Dad... Daddy...?'

The corpse in front of her was barely recognisable; its limbs were twisted, clothes all torn, neck cracked, silent...

And dead.

She had just killed her father.

The only person who cared about her, who lived her, who accepted her.

Well, at least, in the past. That didn't matter now, for one simple reason.

He was dead.

Dead. The uninvited word that she would never, ever forget.

Dead. Deprived of life. The state of not being alive.

Dead.

The young girl brought her hands to her face, rubbing at her tear-filled eyes. Her hands slowly trailed to her chest. Her father's last emotion was warm. She had felt it and would never forget it. It was sticky, but it wasn't disgusting. The warmth had resonated through her body; her pale hands were no longer ice-cold.

With shaking hands, she stuttered.

'Trigger... off.'

Her bloodstained trion clothes were switched away. Seeing all the blood go away made the young girl feel better; seeing too much blood made her feel nauseous. She shoved her Trigger into her coat pocket, and ran away as fast as possible, not dating to look back.

Little did she know that a young boy had been watching.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing the young boy every saw was white.

White, such a beautiful colour. Yet at the same time, so disgusting.

For the young boy, it was neither.

The colour didn't mean anything to him. Nothing did, to be honest.

He was suddenly aware that he could 'feel'. He could feel soft fabrics wrapped around him. He could feel the tickling of the ends of his hair at the base of his neck. He could feel the straps of his eyepatch on his forehead.

He got bored of feeling.

The young boy decided to 'see' instead. Excluding the 'white', there wasn't much to 'see'. The bed was white, the sheets were white, the walls were white, the curtains were white, the blinding lights were white, his clothes were white, everything was white.

 _Not that it mattered._

Even 'seeing' was print, he decided. That wasn't much to do, so he tirned to 'thinking' instead.

 _Where am I?_

 _What time is it?_

 _What date is it?_

 _What year is it?_

Series of questions flurried thorough his mind, until he reached one question that he was sure he couldn't answer.

 _Who am I?_

He couldn't find the answer no matter what. Who was he? What was he? More and more questions came, they came and they cameandtheycameandtheycameandtheycame

Until he couldn't hold them in anymore.

He couldn't think. He couldn't see. He couldn't feel.

He wanted to scream.

And so, he screamed.


	3. Chapter 3

The young genius could make whatever he wanted.

Finding scraps of unwanted metal from around his foster family's house, he could build anything. Toy trucks, Jack-in-the-boxes, small animatronics.

However, his foster family paid no attention to his 'gift.'

'He's too quiet,' they would say. 'Too quiet for a four year old. You don't there's a problem with him, right?'

He just didn't want to speak. What was wrong with those adults?

 _They're the noisy ones,_ the voice in his head would tell him. _You're normal. They're just noisy._

That's what it told him over and over again.

By the age of six, he had assembled his own tin man army. But, well, made out of aluminium foil. The tanks were made from unwanted boxes and springs, the cannons from toilet paper rolls.

But his foster parents continued to pay no mind. His foster sibling would tell him that his handmade items were child's play (but he was a child, was he not?), and threw away a third of his aluminium foil army.

He ignored them. Remaking his army was no big deal. Especially when your foster parents pay no mind to where all their tin foil had gone.

He was seven when he moved to live with other people. That day was still fresh in his memory. The day after his seventh birthday, a couple visited his foster family. His foster parents asked if they could take him away.

'I can't stand it anymore. We give him food and clothes, but he doesn't even say thank you. Not even good morning! He takes away our aluminium foil too, we have to buy a new roll every week.'

Whoops. Seems like they actually knew.

He remembers being taken away, his hand in a bigger one, a woman smiling down at him, promising-

 _'I'll never leave you behind.'_

But don't we all know that promises are made to be broken?


End file.
